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CHAPTER THREE
MAX
Here We Go Again
My grandmother’s gaze followed me from the kitchen door to the fridge. She sipped her tea as she kept her attention studiously focused on me and my every movement.
“Good morning,” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you here this early.”
“Can’t I drop in on my grandson for a spot of breakfast?”
“Youneverdrop in for breakfast. I keep the liquor cupboard locked until six p.m. so you’re not interested in being here this early.”
“A woman can change her mind.”
“I am aware.” I pulled the orange juice from the fridge door and retrieved a glass from the cupboard next to it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She gently set her teacup down. “I went to see the girl at the lodge. Ellie.”
“Have you informed the BBC? Surely that should be on the next breaking news bulletin.”
“You have far too much of my attitude in you, child,” Grandma grumbled. “She said she ran into you, and you didn’t introduce yourself.”
I finished pouring the juice and looked over at her. “I was coming back from my run, and she’d just arrived. You’d hidden the bloody frog in an impossible spot again, so I told her where it was and left. I didn’t see a need to introduce myself.”
“It was the polite thing to do. I raised you with better manners than that.”
“She didn’t introduce herself properly either,” I pointed out. “I asked if she was the writer, she said her name was Ellie, and that was that.”
“That’s still an introduction,” Grandma argued. “You could have said your name was Max.”
“Well, given that you spoke to her, I don’t suppose I need to introduce myself either way, do I?” I put the juice back in the fridge. “Why did you go over there? She’s a tenant here.”
“I always introduce myself to the tenants.”
“Nothing to do with the fact you have her books on the shelf in your cottage, hm?”
Her lips curved into a smile. “Sheiscoming to the book club meeting next week.”
“Oh, good. The Busybody Book Club. Now she’ll never get any peace. Didn’t she say in her booking form that she wanted a nice, peaceful retreat to get some writing done?” I raised my eyebrows. “Grandma, that is the opposite of what you’re offering her.”
“Oh, come on. Ever since May got that mystery author guy to come last year, I need to reclaim my spot as the coolest member. Who better than Ellie Aarons to help me do that?”
“For your smut books.”
“You’re such a misogynist, Maximilian.”
“My name is Max.”
“You’re whatever I want to call you while you’re being a pig-headed pain in my backside,” Grandma scolded me. “My books are not smut. Smut implies poorly written, badly executed stories from the dark underbelly of the Internet.”
Thedark underbellyof the Internet? Good grief. She was on fire this morning.
“The books I read are tasteful, thank you very much. They’re love stories.”
I eyed her speculatively. “With X-rated scenes.”
“Well, people who love each other tend to have sex, my dear. And some of them like it spicy. It’s not for me to judge. Goodness knows I wanted to choke your grandfather on occasion, although that had absolutely nothing to do with the bedroom, if I think about it.”
